One Hour
by AnonWriterChick
Summary: The deal was arranged only for one hour, but when things take a turn neither of them have expected, they start getting more than what they've bargained for.
1. Chapter 1

**One Hour**

* * *

**Chapter One**

Only a few weeks away from my graduation from Colombia, in an early six, my day start slow, despite how it would change the rest of my life drastically. It's a cool early June morning, the sun is neither warm nor bright enough to chase away the lingering spring. I slowly straighten up, sliding my bare feet down on the tiles, letting the crisp morning air give me a momentary chill as I climb out of the bed. My eyes catch the calendar on my desk, which still has the day unceremionally unmarked.

A slow smile appears lazily on my lips; last night after I turned from the party, I hadn't time to cover the calendar, barely having enough time to sort through my questions that I'd prepared ages ago, and well, to decide what to wear.

I know, I'm terrible. Though, give me some slack, please. It's not an everyday a girl fixes herself—uh—"an hour" with a billionaire. For the interview she's been fighting for months.

My smile grows wider as I look at the mirror, and congratulate myself for yet another "mission-completed." The mission, however, isn't completed yet, of course, I mean, my phone just would squall at this moment, and a cool, detached female voice would inform me that she was sorry but Mr. Grey wasn't available at the moment, and we had to reschedule. Murphy's law and all, and shit happens.

But somehow in deep down I know nothing _shitty_ would happen today. A gut feeling, or just my own naivety, you decide. I just know, after all the troubles I've gone through just to claim that one, single, little hour of his day, Fates wouldn't be that cold-hearted, and life certainly wouldn't be that unfair. Youthfulness, how I love thee naivety, Christian would certainly say.

It wasn't an easy job to fix an interview with him, let me tell you about that. First, he hates reporters, second, in his secretaries' words—he's very much engaged with other things. It took eight months, countless phone calls, even a direct call from Katherine's father to let me know that "I'm sorry, Ms. Steele, but Mr. Grey is very much engaged with other things." Like hostile takeovers, creating crisis within the Fragile Five just with a few words of his, buying little islands at some remote places, all while trying to cure the world's hunger— Christian T. Grey, the extraordinary billionaire, all in one day.

The man is phenomenal, that much I know, even before I met him. Coming from an average all-way-American family, the man managed to be the new Great Gatsby of the 21th Century, the new poster boy of the American Dream, with less smiles but tight lips. I can't even remember seeing him smiling in one picture, all the magazines, usually only Forbes and the Economist, and occasionally WSJ always have the same picture of him; impeccably dressed in Armani, arms tied across his chest, lips pressed tightly, eyes lighting. I'd thought it was just a cunning show of Photoshop, that blue glint in his eyes, but now I know better, much, much better.

So short story to long, I couldn't get an hour of him, then in a moment of between self-determination and absolute craziness, I decided that the situation demanded a more direct approach. So, naturally, I turned to Katherine's father again. Katherine is my classmate, who is about to finish her degree in Finance like me, only because her father wishes, whereas she only wants to be the next "Chiara Ferragni". Looking at us, no one would guess we're best friends; we're quite opposites, she is a rich energized socialite who has the same attention span as a butterfly while I have a more reserved personality with a more singlehanded mind, and of course, much less, much less money. But how have we become best friends, you ask? Simple. In our second term in Colombia, I sorta saved her from her a rape attempt. Aside from a part-time job I've managed to get this year at WSJ, I'm also working with the college newspaper, and during that term there were several occasions that the girls started to get date-raped. Being a curious person as I am, I got interested, then soon discovered —okay, discovered by sheer chance—our date-rapist wasn't anyone else but our classmate José Rodriguez, who happened to get a date with Katherine that night. When the police found José, Katherine was already unconscious, on bed, naked as the day she was born, but still untouched. At the end, the bastard got what he deserved, and Katherine and I became best friends. So as you can imagine, Katherine's father who also happens to be a business associate of Christian Grey is rather fond of me. So he didn't mind all that much asking me if he could reach out to Mr. Grey and ask an interview on my behalf, and if it had been anyone else it would have certainly worked too, but as I will learn later, Christian Grey is _not_ anyone else.

But neither I am. My mother always used to say I'm too much stubborn for my own goodness.

So I decided the direct approach. Grey is a curator of the New York Public Library, which sponsored a special performance of _Les Arts Florissants_ in Carniege Hall two days ago. Yesterday they also decided to throw a dinner party in the name of the music ensemble and I was quite certain as being a classical music enthusiast Grey would be there, and the opportunity would finally present itself. So I called Mr. Kavanagh and asked another favor, then put on my little-black-dress that I usually keep for this kinds of occasions, borrowed a little Chanel purse from Katherine, and left for the Library.

It turned out I was right.

Dressed to nine with another Armani, he was there, listening to another small performance of the ensemble, carefully holding a flute in his hand. By that time, I'd heard many things about him; the Wonder Boy of Wall Street, the Heartless Business Tycoon, the Philanthropist. At the moment, he seemed to be none of them, or perhaps all of them at once. Who would know? That was the part of the reason I was trying to get the interview that much; he was an enigma, who always wears a mask, and I wanted to get a peek and see what lies behind. Curiosity gets the cat, right?

Seeing him in the pictures was nothing like seeing him in person. Not only he was powerful, young, and compelling, he was also a very good-looking specimen. He had a broad chest and shoulders, not massive but well-definite, a flat abdomen that had that Armani suit _suit_ him impeccably, strong arms with delicate hands. He wasn't a mass of hunk of muscles and testosterone, but rather repressed power and vigor that also have absolute power over his body. His whole body was emitting that repressed power, influential and let's be honest, quite intimidating. Standing a few feet away from him, I never felt myself that feeble and fragile like that night.

Later in the night, Mr. Kavanagh caught me looking at him, out of my depth, and possibly took pity on me. "Come on," he said, taking my arm at my elbow, "I'll introduce you to him."

I opened my mouth, and was about to protest—goddamnnit I'd not even prepared a witty opening line yet—but he was already dragging me toward him. When we stopped in front of him two seconds later, he let my arm go. "Grey," Mr. Kavanagh greeted him with a half of nod.

He turned his dark head aside toward us then I finally saw his face too, in real life. His was paler than I thought, almost ivory, and his eyes were a weird blue, almost electrical, cold and—like I said lighting, his hair thick and as dark as coal. Before he greeted Mr. Kavanagh with his half nod, his eyes for a split of second skipped over me, so quickly that I almost missed it, then turned back to Mr. Kavanagh. "Kavanagh," then he said, his attention now entirely focused on his business associate, "come," he continued, already walking away, "There is something we need to talk."

Mr. Kavanagh gave me a look, indicating that he was sorry, together with a hopeless shrug then followed him on the way to the balcony. Stuck at my place, I watched their retreating backs as they lost behind the balcony's floor-length-glass window. He did not just disregard me this easily, this effortlessly, this—pathetically. He could not! But he did. Quite efficiently. My self-confidence shattering, I quickly caught a glass of champagne from a passing by waiter and bottomed up the drink. The bubbly drink ran over my throat smoothly, leaving a sweet flicker where it passed. Taking another one, I bottomed it up, too. By the third one, I was convinced he was a rather son of a bitch.

But to be fair to me, I've always known that, haven't I?

So I shook my head, as if to clear the mist of champagnes then realized I needed some fresh air, like now. Hastily, I went to the balcony that they had left minutes ago, slid the tall glass window, and stepped outside. I walked to the railings, craned my neck up to watch the spectacular New York skyline, countless little fireflies glinting in the dark. Born and bred, I've always liked New York, loved its complexity, loved its turmoil, loved its pulsing energy. It's the city that never sleeps, and overlooking at it, feeling its beats, you could see why. This is a city anything can happen, every dream can come true, you only have to work for it, and never give up.

Turning back, my eyes searched for him, and I spotted him at the corner, listening to the music ensemble once again, an unreadable look over his face, something close to softness, his lips a bit less tightened. _Never give up_, I told myself, _never_. Before I changed my mind, I walked back inside then paraded toward him with long, powerful, and determined steps. _I will get that one hour, you son of a bitch! _Why, I hear you asking, why it is so important to you, Ana. Quite simple. The college finishing, my part-time job in Wall Street Journal would come to an end, and I'd rather prefer to keep it, and for that I need to prove to the chief of staff that I'm a _profitable_ acquisition. If I get that one hour, and put it into my portfolio, then the world would be a lot much safer and easier place for me.

My arms tight against my sides, I stopped in front of him, and started with a adamant "Mr. Grey," but before I could say anything else, he turned to me, his flute still in his hands, and gave me an onceover that had the rest of my words die in my throat.

Then he shook his head. "Ms. Steele, I have to confess," said he, "You're very persistent."

My eyebrows raised as my eyes, I'm sure, grew to the size of a saucer. "You know me?" I asked, suddenly out of breath.

He gave me another look, heavy and almost disappointed, as if he suddenly became bored, "You've been nagging me for an interview for eight months, even using your net-work," his eyes shifting, he tossed at Mr. Kavanagh a disapproving look, then returned to me again, "Of course, I know you."

Getting out of my stupor, I smiled. "Good," I said, "So... what do you say?"

"I don't like interviews—" he countered.

"It'd only take an hour," I interfered, and he fixed at me a look, irritated. I snapped my mouth shut.

"On the other hand," he continued, "I believe tenacity would always be rewarded," he declared then told me stiffly before started walking away, "Come to my office at twelve tomorrow. You'll have your hour then."

* * *

Hello, thank you for reading the first chapter of my story. As you can understand, this is AU, in which Ana is the one who has been wanting to have the interview instead of Kate. This isn't beta-read. Only edited by me, and this close first pov is rather hard for me, so bear with me.

Reviews and thoughts are appreciated. See ya the next with the interview ;)


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

* * *

At the risk of sounding dramatic, I take the day off to prepare for my "hour". At eleven o'clock, sun has become clearer and warmer outside as I stand in my room, windows all open, gazing at the mirror, trying to decide if I look adequate for the occasion. I've preferred a knee length a pleated chiffon skirt in dark beige, combined with a white satin blouse, a thin belt with little sparking stones in nude tones sewing up two different items to each other seamlessly. Simple but elegant, it's what I'm going for this interview.

Three years of hanging with Katherine taught me the importance of clothes, and I've always been a quick study. Like she often remarks, fashion isn't just about what to wear, but a statement; a quick and safe way of presenting yourself, especially to absolute strangers. If you know how to look, clothes tell many stories about their owners. Half an hour ago, standing in front of the mirror, I discarded the black pencil skirt for a reason. It was giving the effect of "trying too hard" to impress, a twenty-five almost college graduate playing a role of a full badge reporter, like a little girl playing the house with her mother's clothes. _Nosce te ipsum_. And I do. I know as soon as I put a foot into that monumental building, I will be out of my depth. Pretending the opposite, I wouldn't gain anything, only would have him looking at me with laughing eyes, I could almost imagine the smirk playing over his lips. No, I wouldn't give him that satisfaction. I don't know how, again perhaps another gut feeling, but I'd already gathered that it would be a battle of wills between us, his against mine, and I'm not the one who gives up without a fight first. Christian told me once that's what he likes me about the most; my inability to recognize when it's time to let it go and admit the defeat. His words weren't mocking, but dead serious, like his story finally finds its opposite, because every villain needs his arch-nemesis, because the opposites define each other, how light defines the darkness, and even though some day their love would fade, their struggle would prevail.

Guess he's right, pretty much like always.

As if to agree with myself, I silently nod at my reflection in the mirror then slip on my pumps with sensible heels. I take my sunglasses from bed stand and flip it over my head, giving a last glance at the mirror before I leave the house. Yes, I'm ready, ready for the battle.

Outside, I lower my sunglasses, turn to left and start walking toward the Grey House. Close to New York Public Library, the building, his heart of power isn't very far away from ours, so I prefer walking, letting the early June air cool my strained nerves. Ten minutes later, I'm in front of the majestic building. Like always, I lift my head up and stare at the skyscraper in something close to awe. No matter how its sight has grown to an everyday occurrence for me, it's still breath-taking, a monumental altar for the age of knowledge and what it presents, a totem pole made by steel, glass, and aluminum, glinting under sunlight like a serrated blade, sharp as a razor; a totem pole where its monarch sits up at the top of, gazing at us the mortals below.

I look at the script that runs over the chromized panel over the main entrance; the curt, stylistic "Grey House" in dark inox for a second longer, then walk inside. Inside isn't any different, only more sterile, almost emotionless, the high-tech equipment even in the lobby giving the whole interior a futuristic ambience, like it belongs to a distant utopia more than New York in 21th Century. I approach over the information desk, where an elegantly dressed in a suit receptionist greets me, smiling a smile that don't reach to her eyes. "Hello, welcome to Grey House," she says, voice detached, "How may I help you?"

"Hello," I say back, smiling back, but unlike hers mine has the warmth inside, "Anastasia Steel is here to see Mr. Grey."

The woman titling her head slightly looks at me, her eyes this time confused, "It's almost lunch time," she says, "Mister Grey never misses lunch time."

I shrug. "He said twelve."

She nods, albeit tersely. "Let me check with his PA, please."

I nod back, shifting one foot to another, still eyeing the intimidating building. It's giving me creeps, like you know you don't belong to some place, but still try to fit. Suddenly I feel my whole hard work to choose adequate attire for this interview seems rather pointless as a feeling of dissonance enthralls me. I wouldn't fit into here, no matter what. It's so out of reach, so distant...then suddenly I understand what's wrong with the place. Like its owner, it's majestic but unreachable, like stars in the sky. You all could see it, watch them enchanted, but what you see is only a pale reflection of reality, a reality of cold stones, long dead. And that's why I tell him later that, tears in my eyes, and pain in my heart; _Christian Grey, you're like a star; beautiful, captivating, fascinating but so distant, so out of reach, you're like a star, and like a star, you're dead inside_.

"Miss Carter would see you to up floor, Miss Steele," said the receptionist suddenly, breaking over my thoughts. I turn to her, as a blonde woman arrives beside her. "Miss Steele," the newcomer says formally, "Please, come this way," she continues, already turning toward the lift behind their back, pressing the button that marked with the head of an arrow, "Mister Grey will see you now."

Dutifully, I pad after her into the elevator, getting tenser and tenser as the glass-cage platform carries us up and above. I imagine Grey standing here, every morning, in the glass-cage as he moves up and up and away to where he belongs. To the top of the world.

The doors slide a few seconds later, and stepping out of the elevator, in the hall, I see him, waiting looking at the elevator, his legs wide open, arms tied across his chest. Upon seeing him, I halt in my steps, so suddenly the PA almost bumps at me. She moves aside at the last moment before any embarrassing moment may occur, so swiftly like she slides over her feet rather than walk. My eyes skip over her as I glance at her graceful movements, before I turn back to him. He stares at me back. Standing motionlessly, I continue looking at him, as he does the same. Then he suddenly launches forward, so quick so vigorously for a moment I think he will tackle me down. Before he hits me, though, he stops, looking at me. "Just right on time," he says, "You're very punctual, too," he sounds very pleased, but I wouldn't even guess why.

"Uh—" I mumble.

"I was afraid we would be late for lunch."

"Lunch?" I ask, my eyebrows knitting above my crease. What lunch, I almost add, but manage to hold it back at the last moment.

"Twelve is lunch time," he explains, like it's the most obvious thing in the world then shows me the elevator. "I run a very busy schedule, Ms. Steele," he says, "If you don't want to wait for another eight months, I'm afraid, the lunch time is only available slot I can assign to you."

"Oh."

He smiles. "So if you don't mind—"

I shake my head, and walk back to the elevator once again. "Not at all," I counter, breaking the ice, so to speak, "I know you're a person who is very—engaged," I say, and smirk, "Your PA has been telling me that for eight months."

Inside, I look at him, in waiting for a retort, but this time wordlessly, he only reflects my smirk back, his lips pulling out in a way that it resembles to anything but a smile. The doors of elevator slide open, and I'm again at the main entrance, and this time the experience is even more—upsetting. Next to mine, his strides are too powerful, too hasty as he marches to the main door, entirely at ease, not even without checking on me to see if I'm still following, which I am, but that's beside the point.

Outside, a black classic Bentley is parked at the front, its doors already open for us. Like a true gentleman, he waits me until I arrive to his side, and climb into the luxury car before he follows me inside. Before he does, though, I slightly tilt my head down, and catch a glimpse of him, his left arm stretched over the door's edge, and behind him, his building reaching out to the sky, challenging the God above. For a moment, I remember the Babel Tower, and my eyes skip over his and there I see the same of arrogance of its King. I think I would never forget that day, how he stands in front of his own Tower, with the same grandeur, the same wish to leave something to the world, a permanent mark, something that no one would forget even one day you only become dust and soil, but your legacy would always prevail. I remember calling it arrogance of humanity, but that was before I know him, truly knowing him.

He sits next to me at the backseat, leaving the wheel to his driver. Remembering my manners, I turn to him. "Thank you sir," I mutter, "for—this hour," I clarify, "I really appreciate it."

All in honesty, I've expected a faint smile, not meaning but at least still courteous for a return, but all I get is a frown. "And you should," he rasps, slightly turning to me, "This isn't an everyday occurrence for me."

I play the dumb. "What?" I ask back, adding a little mocking in my tone, "You don't have lunch every day?"

He fixes at me a stern look, and I regret my words as soon as they left my mouth. "I'm a business man, Ms. Steele," he almost sneers, "And I make deals, not favors for gratis."

"I thought it isn't a favor," I say, now frowning myself too, "but a gift, because tenacity would be always regarded."

His stare bores through my eyes. "Most people would ask something else," he slowly whispers, in a voice that almost suggests something else, but I just couldn't be sure about that _else._ Suddenly I notice how close we sit at the back seat, and my first instinct is to squirm, and pull back, but somehow, thank god, I manage to stay still.

"I'm not most people," I say, but my voice lacks the self-confidence the words suggest, I realize. Being in his proximity is disorientating, much like all the things with him.

"I can see that," he whispers back then his look grows heavier, then he nods, almost at himself. "Then make a deal, Ms. Steel," he declares.

This time surprise takes me, and I look at him baffled, "What?"

"If you're going to ask me questions," he says, pulling back an inch, leaving me a bit relieved, "In return I want the same courtesy."

"You want to me interview me?" I ask, my eyebrows getting lost behind my hairline.

"I _want _you to answer three questions at the end of our hour," he states, "as for my fee."

"Then I could hardly call this as a gift," I shoot back.

He shakes his head. "A gift would only provide you an hour of my time."

"But a deal?" I ask back, my voice now curious. This is getting interesting.

"My honesty," he deadpans, "Not some PR shit."

"Well, Mr. Grey," I say, "You know how to make offers cannot be refused."

"I'm a business man," he retorts, then smiles, "And I have one condition as well." And I would expect nothing else from him. "About the nature of your answers," he continues, "As I'm to offer my honesty, you're honor bound to do the same thing."

I nod. "I won't lie."

"Not necessarily," he counters, "But you can't give evasive answers, either," he elaborates, his eyes fixing a look at me, "or things like "no comment."

I laugh, sincerely, laugh at his suspicious mind, "If only you do the same, Mr. Grey."

He nods in agreement, and then as our bargain is finishing, we stop. I lean forward slightly, and crane my neck up to the infamous New York Stock Exchange looming our behind, as Cipriani glints purple and fuschia at me. I let out a sigh. _Of course._

The host greets us at the entrance, respectively bowing his head to Grey, and of course doesn't ask if we have a reservation. The perks of being a billionaire. I follow him toward to the corner at the left side as he stands next to the table by the tall window. Again, like a gentleman he awaits until I'm settled, then sit back, taking the menu our waiter in suits presents. I take mine too, and start exploring the dishes, all sounding quite unfamiliar despite the fact that I'm an Italian cuisine admirer.

As I look at the menu in uncertainty, he tilts his eyes over his, and asks, "What do you eat?"

The way he asked it for a moment makes me all forget about the menu. The question sounds innocent, but the way he voiced it not. I frown, my eyebrows pulling slightly at something that I can't fully name, and it disturbs me more than question itself. I'm good with reading people, and noticing little things that most people would normally miss, but with him, I feel like I'm looking at a blank Rosetta Stone, written all three different I don't recognize, but I know the cipher is somewhere there, and if I look carefully enough, I'd find it out. Frowning more, I turn back to the menu. "There is surely something that'd catch your interest," I hear him say, voice too causal now, and it disturbs me much more, "I prepared it myself."

I lift my head and stare at him. "Did you?"

He nods. "I bought the restaurant a few years back," he answers, lifting a shoulder off, "I don't like surprises," he remarks, "Especially with my food."

I shake my head, my mind focused on the former comment, "Tishman Speyer bought Cipriani—" I tilt my head over the place, "Over a disagreement of the ownership of the building."

He shot out a laugh, "And who you think holds the majority of Tishman Speyer shares now?" I look at him in disbelief. That wouldn't be true, I mean, it's Tishman Speyer, but this is also Christian Grey. As if guessing my thoughts, he smiles, truly content with himself, "Please, allow me to introduce myself," he intones, his voice sounds very pleased, for a moment, young and careless as I still stare at him, "I'm a man of wealth and taste."

Then I can't help myself, I let out a laugh back. "Mr. Grey," I lean over the table, "Are you wishing to be judged with—sympathy?"

He smirks, and slowly mutters, "_Deus solus me iudicare potest._"

My hands itch to take the recorder inside my bag as I feel my—hour has finally stared, and a clock is ticking somewhere outside. I lose no more time. "And that's what is essential to your character, Mr. Grey?" I ask, "to be judged by someone just."

His lips pull out into that smile that isn't a smile, and he shakes his head. "Despite what you may have heard of me, Ms. Steele, I assure you, I'm not the devil incarnate."

"That isn't an answer to my question," I counter.

"What's the question?" he shoots back.

"What's essential to your character," I answer without missing a beat, "Something that has the utmost importance to you."

"Like the first thing I'd wish to have with me stranded on a deserted island?" he asks mockingly.

"Something like that," I mutter.

He shakes his head. "I'm afraid I don't have anything like that," he answers, this time truly, as the mocking husk vanishes out of his voice without a trace, instead leaves its place to a hard cold reality, his words not harsh, but just—disturbing, like the truth itself, "I try not to get attached anything too much. I like owning things, not the other way around. And I don't give things to sentimental value. I judge them by their functionality, and when they fulfill their purposes I simply discard them."

I look at him coldly. "Like how you discarded five-hundred people after you bought Crane Tech?"

He fixes at me a look even colder. "I run a business, Ms. Steele," he snaps, "not a charity. I sacked them because they didn't give me any reason not to."

"But was it really necessary?" I ask back, remembering the report I did on the subject. Five-hundred people, all sacked over a night, his move as hostile as his take-over.

"I bought Crane Tech to pull it up on its feet and how do you suggest I'd do that with people already let it crumble into pieces?" he asks, and leans forward as if to hear my answer, but he doesn't let me speak, continues himself, "We live in different times now, Ms. Steele," he says, "Everything we do is connected to each other, every move, every breath. My business is like Voltron, do you remember the anime?" he asks, and slowly, in awe of his words, I nod. "I'm the black lion that forms the head. But if I let other lions stumble, we all fall together."

I let a breath out, as seeing how his mid work a bit clearer, "So you're the brain of your organization."

He nods, in a poise of self-reliance as he leans back. "Yes, I am." His eyes find mine again. "Like a brain I'm very good with assessments, assortment and classification. I recognize the potential of people I employee, and I know of their needs. It's a fair deal. They please me, and in return I give them what they need."

I stare at him, hearing the matter-of-fact value of his words, and vanity there, but that was what I asked for, when we made our deal, not some PR bullshit. I open my mouth but before I can form out a counter-attack, our waiter arrives to take our orders. "Mr. Grey, have you decided, sir?"

Grey nods, albeit tersely at the interruption. "Yes, Antonio," he replies, "I will have an _Involtini_ with Pecorino Romano, and an insalad for starters, and white wine," he orders, and looks at me. "Ms. Steele?"

"Water is fine for me," I mutter dismissively.

He frowns. "It's lunch time." I narrow my eyes in confusion. "You must eat."

"I had a late breakfast," I counter, shaking my head. I don't want this to a _real_ lunch date, when we finally start making—progress, "Mr. Grey, water is really fine," I reach out an olive branch, my voice now polite again.

But he doesn't take it. "I insist," he says, stressing each word, strongly.

Well, let's not upset him. I decide to indulge him and order an artichoke hearts salad for myself. For a second he looks like he would protest, then gives the menu back to Antonio. Taking of the advantage of the moment, I pull out my recorder of my bag. "Do you mind?" I ask, looking at him for his confirmation.

He shakes his head. "Not at all."

I take a sip from the water that Antonio has just filled before he left, to buy some time for the second round, then ask, turning on the machine, "so you're good at assessing people—"

"And situations," he interrupts, giving me an opening.

I smile a little. "Some says you've benefitted from the dot-com bubble."

"I've seized the opportunities in the dot-com bubble," he corrects, not unaffected even a bit by my retort, "Crisis makes some people poor, and some people rich."

"Like war," I say darkly.

"Exactly."

I lean over, "So, Your World Food Programme with UN is a result of that?" I ask, "That you're giving away as much you take?"

His eyes look at me so severely, with so much intensity that for a moment I feel a heat rising up from the back of my neck. "The world has been very generous to me, Ms. Steele," he responds, his eyes for a second looks ahead of me, before finding mine again, "I'm obliged to return the favor."

"Are you a religious person?"

"I religiously believe in—myself," he quips, then letting out a small sigh he leans back, "Do you believe in second chances, Anastasia," he asks, saying my name, slowly, as if to assess how it weights over his tongue, but again doesn't wait for my answer. "I don't. But the world still has given me a second chance," he says, "You asked what's essential to my character," he continues, "and this is. It's not about the money," he shakes his head, "money—isn't essential to me, but what it stands for is."

"And what does it stand for?" I ask, breathless.

"Being in control," he answers without hesitation, "holding the reign of your own destiny."

Before I think them, the words leave my mouth, "Do you have a God complex, Mr. Grey?"

His reaction isn't what I expect. He looks at me, and then starts laughing, "Among other things."

I think for a retort at that and get saved by the arrival of our food. I look at Antonio, quite gratefully. He serves us dishes, his old hands steady without tremor, experienced. He serves to Christian first, of course, placing delicately the big square plate in front of him then places my bowl of salad. I look at the green vegetables, eyeing the slime slices of Parmesan cheese dressing, and take a bit from the artichoke hearts, and hum appreciated, as soon as my taste buds burns with Balsamico Aceto. Grey nods at my reaction, pleased. "Well done, Ms. Steel," he says, "You chose one of the best dishes of the Chief."

I nod in agreement, taking another bit then use the window of opportunity to turn our conversation to more lighted topics. "May I say a few words and you say back to me the first thing that pop into your head?" I ask, looking for his approval.

He looks up from his plate and arches an eyebrow, "Word-association test?"

"Do you prefer me to ask your favorite movie?" I ask back challengingly.

He cringes, his mouth turning down. "That's sounded dreadful."

I laugh. "You really don't like interviews, do you?"

He shrugs, "I'm really a private person." He pauses for a second then nods again, "Very well. Let's—" a smirk appears over his lips, "play."

"Sky—" I start.

"Blue," he answers without missing a beat.

"Birds," I continue with the same fiber.

"Planes."

"Moon?"

"Dance," he says, his smirk pulling in a way terribly suggestive.

"Sunlight?"

He shrugs, "Swim."

"Reporters," I ask, smiling.

"Nuisances," he shoots back, smirking wider.

"Family—" I then say.

The smirk vanishes as his face closes off, more than anytime, devoid of any emotion, "Blood."

"People," I press further.

"Employment."

"Relations," I demand.

He looks at me in the eyes, "Multiple correlation."

"Love," I look back.

He doesn't run away his gaze, but stares at me, his eyes turning to that electrical blue, "Inconceivable," he whispers.

I let my breath out. I open my mouth, but he shakes his head. "No, that's all for today," he turns me down, "We'll eat now in peace then I'll ask my questions."

I check my wrist. "But I still have twenty minutes," I protest.

He cuts a slice from his meat. "Our deal is for one hour, but you didn't clarify the amount of the questions you will ask. So you will still have the rest of your hour," he says, and smirks, "by simply sharing the lunch with me." He shakes his head, fixes at me another look, this time his eyes are laughing at me. "You need to learn to run more strict bargains, Ms. Steel."

I remember how defined his conditions in the car when we made our deal. "Like you?" I snap.

"Like me," he confirms.

We eat the rest of our meals in silence, quickly, and when Antonio clears the table, he takes his refilled wine glass, and then he's looking at me again, with that look, the humor is lost, leaving its place to a daring curiosity. Then he asks bluntly, "Are you fucking Kavanagh, Anastasia?"

My mouth opens, in absolute wonder. For a moment I stay still, wondering if I hear him wrong, but I know I didn't. "Wh—what?" I manage to sputter after a while, then shake my head, "No—of course, not." I frown. "But what has made you say that?" Why someone asks something like that?

"Johathan has been making a strong case for you," he answers, with a causal shrug in his voice, "so I—"

I cut him off, "So you've assumed I'm banging him," I bite off, my frown going deeper, "Don't you think you're a bit quick with your—assessments, Mr. Grey?"

"Well, he was _very_ persistence, Ms. Steele."

"Mr. Kavanagh has a spot for me."

"More than what's appropriate for a daughter's friend."

I didn't make a remark how he would know that, suddenly it seems rather pointless. He'd said himself He _knows_ me. But apparently he doesn't know the whole story, quite understandably. Mr. Kavanagh didn't want the occurrence that Katherine and I had become best friends, fearing of detriments. "I helped Katherine out of a tight spot at our first year at the college," I explain, carefully choosing my words, "He's grateful."

The vagueness of my answer displeases him, I can see clearly. "That's not a straight answer," he states with a grimace.

"I'm sorry," I say, "I can't reveal more. It's not mine to say."

He looks at me, his eyes lighted on a challenge. "I can find more."

"Possibly," I shrug, "but then it'd be all on your shoulders, not mine."

He nods, as if he understands. "Very well."

Finishing with my salad, I set the fork aside, checking my watch. "So...?" I prompt for the second question. Our time is coming to an end, and I want it done now, too.

"Tell me the stupidest thing you've ever done," he demands.

I look at him, again stupefied. What's him and asking the most inappropriate questions...? He leans forward, "Tell me, Anastasia," he makes again that voice with my name, and I really wish him he stopped doing that. I really wish. I take my water, and gulp a sip to repress my suddenly increasing heat. My reaction is so clumsy, he notices it, and smirks wilder, and in that moment he really seems as perilous as they say about him, a man always gets what he desires, no matter what, a predator.

"At high school," I start, almost flushing, "There was this guy—someone I really like." I take a breath out, not knowing how to continue.

"And you couldn't open to him?" he does in my stead.

I shake my head, bowing it with another surge of embarrassment. "He wasn't seeing me, and I couldn't talk to him, so—one day, in the parking lot, I saw him, leaving the school, and I was in my car too, then I had a thought—" I lift my head up and look at him. "I took the car out of the park, and rear-ended him."

He shoots out a loud laugh, shattering the intensity between us. I laugh along with him, too, silently. "It seemed such a good idea at the moment," I mutter.

"See, inconceivable," he tells me. I laugh more. "What happened then?"

I shrug. "We hung around for a while then got separated. He went to Boston."

"And another fairytale has ended."

I purse my lips, "It was hardly one."

He nods, "Indeed." He stands up abruptly, "As _pleasing_ as this hour was," he says, again smiling that not-smile, "I'm afraid, all good things have to come to an end."

I stand up, this time not bothering to check my wrist. "You have still one question left," I say.

He shakes his head. "Maybe another time, Ms. Steele." Then quickly he starts walking outside. We're in silence on our way out, as I wonder how I could decipher this hour. The experience seems so bizarre, even when I'm still together with him. I feel like I've managed to uncover a few personal traits out of him, but I don't what to make of them. He seems a bit closer, but still unattainable, still unreachable at the top of the totem pole whereas I struggle at the below. Outside, I blink at the sunlight, as my eyes dazzle after the gloomy interior of Cipriani, and of course, he takes his back after the sun, as he stands in front of me, consequently leaving me blinking at him. Cunning bastard.

Leaning over, he reaches toward the Bentley's door, and opens it for me. "James will drive you to wherever you wish," he says, his hand still decisively on the door's edge. I expect him to hold out his hand for a firm business shake as we close our deal, but he doesn't. I try not to take offense by the lack of gesture, but then realize suddenly he has never made any direct contact with me, nor with anyone I'd seen him together with. "I wish you a pleasant day, Ms. Steele," he ends the hour, his voice adequate and gentlemanlike, but like the most of things he does, it lacks sincerity. He turns around, and I start climbing inside then I hear the voice, the voice has already changed my life calling my name; a voice that would change my life once again, drastically and irrecoverably, and would turn it upside down like a hurricane.

A shiver runs through my spin. I spun on my heels, and look at José who stands at the corner, a few feet away from me. "Anastasia!" he shouts again, as I stare at the gun in his hand, pointed directly at me.

"José—" I whisper, as out of the corner of my eyes I see Grey approaching toward me, his eyebrows pulled into a frown. He follows my dreaded look, then launches forward as José screams, "You fucking ruined my life, bitch," José yells, as his gun trembles, "you fucking ruin it..."

I see his finger pull the trigger, and start closing my eyes as I hear the loud bang, but my view gets obscured before my eyelids close, then I'm looking at the eclectic blue...Stumbling on his steps, Grey takes a hesitant step toward me, his hand reaching out for me, and my mind buzz, hazy and misted, but I still see José running away from us, then Grey is within my arms.

My feet has given away or the ground has raised toward my knee, I don't know, I just stumble down, still holding him, tightly, so tightly, then I notice the blood in my hands... Funny things your mind decides to focus in the time of crisis. Bowing my head, I look down, over my chest, where blood blossoms over the white satin, in a delicate pattern.

Then I start screaming.

* * *

Dun, dun, dun, so the real story stars. I want to do this story to cover the idea how would Anastasia feel if she owns Christian her life. Evidently, my Ana and Christian are loosely based on the books, and I imagine Christian is more like Lex Luthor and a bit like Lucifer from Paradise Lost. As for Anastasia, I want her to be strong-willed girl, who is still naive, but clever as she tries to find her place at the totem pole.

There are still a few acknowledgement I need to make, but I'm running over a fever right now. (That's why you have to bear with more, because I couldn't proof-read it this time) So briefly;

_"Let me introduce you myself, I'm a man of wealth and taste,"_ is opening lyrics of Sympathy for the Devil.

_Nosce te ipsum_, in Latin, means "Know Thyself."

_Deus solus me iudicare potest", _in Latin, means "Only God can judge me."


	3. Chapter 3

_Thank you for all the reviews, and favs and follows. I am sorry I couldn't answer you, life is a mess right now, I barely manage to find time to sit down and write, but please know each of them was appreciated, and heard. For those of you that felt a bit confused, don't worry, in due time, everything will be clear. As this is an AU, José as of the moment is our villain. :)_

**Chapter Three**

* * *

The world is in chaos. I'm surrounded by voices that come from all directions, in different tones, and I hear the urgency and desperation in them, but my mind doesn't register the meaning. My mind only registers that moment, that fateful moment that José pulled the trigger and Grey collapsed in my embrace. He's still in my arms, and I can't let him go.

I vaguely feel strong callous fingers clawing at mine, trying to break my grip over him as my mind plays the scene in a loop... Trigger, bang, he collapses, I scream. "Ms. Steele," a soft but stern voice echoes from distance, so far away in the chaos; trigger, bang, he collapses, I scream, "Ms. Steele—" it calls again, as the fingers' pressure increases, "Ms. Steele, it's okay—" the speaker has a distinctive calmness in heavy English accent, something as trustworthy and enduring as like mountains, "everything is okay. Let him go," it commands.

Instinctively I lift my head up and see his driver, Taylor, at my side, trying to take Grey from me. Wordlessly, I shake my head, my hair plastered over my cheeks with my tears. He pulls my hand more strongly, "Ms. Steele, everything is okay," he tells me again with that gentle sternness. I stare at him. He glances back, toward the medics just have come to our side. Sudden hands grab me then whisk me away, so suddenly I feel like something has ripped out of me. I scream more. "Someone gets her a sedative," someone yells, as Taylor catches me.

His grip is tighter than I imagine, and I fight it back as medics turn Grey's back, then I see his wound, blood sputtering down the payment. "Male, early 30s, shot at his back," the medic yells over to her co-worker starts a tourniquet on the wound immediately as the other continues checking his vitals, "B.P 140 over 90," her pen-light flashes over his eyes as she opens his eyelids, "Pulse 100. Temp 102.5," she yells once again, "B Rh-," she lifts her head, and commands, as another medic grabs me again at my shoulders and starts dragging me away from the scene. "I need blood."

Shaking my head, I resist. "No, no—" I say, craning my head aside to see Grey as they load him on a stretcher, his body already covered with a red blanket, his nose closed with air regulator, three medics leaned all over him as tying a blood bag in his vein with IV. Taylor stands over the stretcher, too, towering over all of them. "No—no," I yank myself back as the medic hauls me to the opposite direction from the ambulance, "No, I need to be there. I need to—"

"Let me go!" I scream, pulling my arm back, "Taylor!" I shout. He turns toward me, and over the sea of people his eyes find me, black eyes burning with dangerous fire. I run to him, "Taylor," I remember suddenly I even don't know his first name, but it makes no little difference, not now. "I have to be there," I say, almost in a whisper, and beg, "please, I need to be there." I need to see it, I need to be sure; the loop is continuous, tortuous, and timeless; a snapshot of a second frozen in time; trigger, bang, he collapses, I scream...

As if he understands, the driver nods at me, then catches my elbow, and lifts me up in the ambulance like I weigh less than a feather. Then I notice how he looks _nothing_ like a driver. He's a taciturn, dark haired man of strong muscles and deft movements, as gentle as a sleek panther. Not a driver. I look at the stern look over his face, the unreadable expression over his face as he sits across me, collected as I'm a heap of tears and sobs. He has the looks of someone who have already seen something like this, experienced blood and panic, though I can still see the anger beneath the calm exterior, lightened in his eyes; not his driver but his bodyguard, I understand. "I'm sorry," I shake my head, my eyes drawing toward Grey, "I'm so sorry, I don't understand how—" I whimper, "I—I even didn't—"

He lifts his head up. "We will talk about it later, Ms. Steele," he tells me, looking at me, and I see that he has meant it. The anger is more vivid now in his eyes, for what happened, I stumble back in my bench, nodding. My eyes find Grey again, lying over his shoulder as medics continue to check his vitals. "Don't worry, he aimed for your heart," Taylor tells me suddenly, "but missed the main artery in his neck," he remarks, "He's lost blood, but he's going to make it." The medic that is with us in the ambulance lifts her head up from Grey and stares at the man like me. He looks back at us, "I know what a gunshot does to a body," he explains.

The medic turns back to Grey, I continue staring at him, his words turning in my mind, replacing the scene; _he's going to make it...he's going to make it. He's not going to die because of you, Ana._

It echoes in my mind like a chant, like a pray, and if only I could believe it, if only I could. I open my mouth again, to say something, anything, but before I can form any voice out, the ambulance has stopped. A cluster of people open the doors as they pull out the stretcher with hasty but steady hands. In the middle of the crowd I see a doctor in early fifties running toward us, her eyes bloodshed. "Jason!" she screams as she launches forward, "Where is he? God, where is he?" then her eyes catch a look of Grey and she stands there as if she's suddenly cast off stone, then starts shouting, "Get him ready for the operation, prepare the room 1, and get me Doctor Steven," she fires orders rapidly, then leans over him. She lifts his eyelids and sheds light into his pupils like other medics did, "Christian, darling, can you hear me?" I hear her whisper into his ear before someone grabs me and pulls me under an alcove in front of the hospital.

I lift my head up and see Taylor—no, what was the woman called him? I try to make all things straighten in my head, but it was impossible... "Who is she?" I ask, watching their retreating backs as they hurry Grey into the hospital.

"Doctor Grey," Taylor answers, "She's Mr. Grey's mother."

My mouth hangs in open. I feel once again the world slip off me, my knees starting to give away. God, I have brought a mother her bleeding son, God! "Ms. Steele," Taylor calls my attention commandingly, "the police will be here shortly and before they come, I need to ask you a few questions."

I nod, tears starting to run again over my cheek, the images plastered over my eyes, no mother should have lived through this, no one... "That boy—how do you know him?" Taylor asks.

"He's—" I answer, but my voice creaks too much, I stop, then begin again, "We were in the same class at Colombia—" I try another time, "He was raping my classmates with roofies, tried to hurt Kat—" Then I stop, so suddenly like someone has really shot me in the heart, then I scream, "KATHERINE!" I jerk violently, "Oh my god, Katherine!" I start searching for my bag, to find my phone, I need to warn her, oh my god, Katherine, god, please don't let anything happen to her, oh please, please! "Where is my bag?" I wail and grab his shirt with my fists, "Your phone!" I bark out wildly, "gimme your phone!"

He clutches my hands in his chest, "Ms. Steele," he says sternly, "What's happening?"

"Katherine!" I shout again, "I need to warn her," my hands start lowering to his pockets, "Gimme your phone, goddammit!"

My panic finally registers to him, and he obliges. He hands me the phone. Frantically I call Katherine, only to hear a voice informing me that I can't reach to her at the moment. I call her father then, my whole body trembling, "Mr. Kavanagh," I cry over as soon as the line is picked.

"Ana," he replies with a frown in his voice, and I understand he hasn't heard anything... My cries turn heavier. "Ana, what happened?" Mr. Kavanagh demands, "Are you hurt?"

I shook my head. "Not me," I cry with each word, "José—" then whisper between my sobs, "He's—out, he—he's fo—und—m-ee!" My words turn to weeps, unrecognizable, my hand now clutching Taylor's arm, "Katherine—" I whisper for the last time before I crumple into desperation as a heap of tears, then there is nothing but fear, pain, and dark.

* * *

As soon as I crack my eyes open an inch, a bright white light assaults me, my head is a mesh, my brain mushed up like a potato puree. Letting out a low noncommittal sound, I cringe, or at least try to, and shutter my eyes close. Even with close eyelids though I can sense other presences in the room, as if ghosts hanging in the corners. I open my mouth, try to ask about Katherine, but my dry throat doesn't let me. "Kaaghhr—" I try second time, my eyes still closed.

A wet cotton ball passes over my dehydrated lips, a few sips of water slip through my mouth, "She's fine," a motherly, comforting voice says, "Mr. Kavanagh has sent her out of the country."

I open my mouth, and mumble again. "We sedated you," the woman tells me, "You were having a break down," she pauses for a second before she continues; "Jason told me you were very brave though."

Me...brave? I don't remember anything brave, but Jason... who is Jason...? I try to open my eyes, and at the second attempt, I manage, I flutter them open, then over my eyes the black-haired figure I saw earlier slowly appears... Grey's mother! I start straightening back, but the woman doesn't let me. Her strong hands catch me and force me back to the bed. Despite her little lithe figure, she has an incredible strength, like I weight nothing as she eases me back on the pillows. "Mr. Grey?" I ask her, my eyes fixed at hers.

"He's fine," she replies, His operation has finished. He's sleeping now." I rest myself further back on the pillows. I want to ask more, questions turning in the cobwebs of my mind, so many questions, but I'm out of focus, and my sore throat doesn't let me speak a lot. But I know he will be fine. Otherwise the good doctor wouldn't be here sitting with me this serenely. She wouldn't. "We try to reach out to your family—" the woman starts talking again and I wish she didn't, "But we couldn't reach to your mother."

My eyes this time deliberately closed, I nod. Mother is still on her honeymoon with her new—latest husband, in their fourth—month. The last time we talked, they were about to leave for Cambodia and who knows where they are now. I certainly don't. "You must know, Ms. Steele," the woman remarks suddenly, breaking the brief silence in the room, "No one blames you for what happened today."

I nod again, my eyes still closed. Somehow it makes me feel a bit better hearing those words from his mother. I know of course they wouldn't blame for anything, I mean, my logical part knows it, I'm a victim of the event as much as Grey himself, but still it makes the weight on my chest has lift off a bit further up, as if someone just set me free of guilt. "You will pass the night here, and Jason will be staying with you," she says, and I notice another in the room with us, a subtle presence that is barely there. I feel a hand touch me briefly, "Sleep well, Ms. Steele," she says for the last before she leaves the room, "You have nothing to fear."

* * *

When I wake up again, it was night. I crane my head aside, my eyes searching the room to find a clock to check the time. A second later I see the white clock at the wall, presenting the hour as almost midnight. Knitting my eyebrows, I shake my head. I must have been sleeping for hours.

But I already feel better, only hungrier and thirstier. I stir in the bed, and the gentle stern, familiar voice remarks from my left side, "Good, you've wake up."

I turn to left, and see Taylor sitting on an armchair next to the bed, his legs propped over a foot couch. A faint smile slowly appears over my lips upon seeing the bodyguard, as a feeling of safety registers at me, and I don't know when it has happened, but his presence—the stern softness is comforting. Nodding, I straighten up, "Yeah," I say, "Sorry for this—" I continue, looking at him, ashamed, "I've caused so much trouble—"

His face suddenly thunderous, he leans forward, "You have nothing to apologize for," he says, shaking his head, "It's me who has to apologize. My job is to protect Mr. Grey and people is close to him," he says, "and I've failed."

I shake my head. "You wouldn't know," I object, "And I'm not close to Mr. Grey." He gives me a look. I shake my head again, and correct, "I was just—near to him."

He shakes his back at me. "It's my job to protect who is near to him, too," he says, then his face turns sterner, "But I guarantee you it won't happen again." I give him a questioning look, but he acts like he doesn't notice it. "You must be hungry," he says instead and stands up from the armchair, "Let me find you something to eat."

Then he leaves the room, as I look at his retreating back as he vanishes through the door. Suddenly I feel like I've fallen into something I can barely make sense then I realize the situation. Christian Grey—Christian Grey was shot, was shot while protecting me from a rapist's bullet. There will be severe consequences of an event like this, both personal and business.

I jerk off the bed, and turn on the TV on the bed stand. I survey the channels, jumping one to another quickly, but each is the same, like I have thought—flash news: _Christian Grey is shot_.

"How the events occurred still maintains its mystery as the police refuse making a statement as well as the Grey House," the host of CNN remarks in professional tones, "but our sources say it might be a crime of passion—"

I look at the screen, my mind suddenly numb... Crime of passion? Goodness... crime of passion? Though, looking at it from a certain view of point, one would say that it was...though it would be an exaggeration. Shaking my head, I stare at the host as she keeps retelling Grey's history, and how his love life, or the lack of it, has been always a point of keen interest in the media as the man has never presented himself with a girlfriend or anything like this in public.

I've noticed that, too, of course, but it's never crossed my mind before, as I was more interested with his other stuff than his lack of romance. I can clearly see now what they would turn this into—how glamourous a crime of passion would be coming to their ears, I can even see the glint in their eyes.

Shaking my head, I turn off the TV, my nerves getting on edge. Just the thing I need. "Don't listen to them," Taylor suddenly appears back into room, holding a sandwich bag. He hands it out to me. "They're just—"

Cutting his sentence, I accept the bag. "I know." I open it, and take out the sandwich, "Believe me, I know. " I take a bit, and shake my head, "But I don't like it."

He smiles a bitter smile. "I figured out you wouldn't, Ms. Steele."

"Please, Ana," I say back, and he nods, but doesn't offer me the same courtesy. I shrug mentally. "The police—" I look at him, "Where are the police? Why they didn't come to take my deposition?"

"They came, but you were sleeping," he replies, "Doctor Grey said you weren't in a position to answer questions."

I frown. "I'm fine."

"Now, yes," he shoots back, then his eyes find mine, "which reminds me our talk before it's—interrupted."

I look back at him straight in the eyes. "What do you want to know?"

"Everything," he answers without hesitantly, "When he wakes up, Ana," he says pointedly, "_Mr. Grey _will want to know everything. Everything." He gives me a look. "You must understand we're involved now, too."

The sandwich forgotten in my hands, I stare at him, the situation finally settles in me. My life is saved by Christian Grey, and the consequences have already started showing their impacts on our lives.

* * *

Next time Grey wakes up, and will see what happened. Wonder how he would react, eh?


End file.
